P s 

3515 

1900 



P 







tM^ 



fe. 





ul^Yi' Ak^l^O Mftl. 'M . tkl^ 



Scenes of My Childhood. 



^ 



by 



CHARLES ELMER JENNEY. 

1; 



^ 



" There is many a simple song- one hears 
Not for itself — for the buried years." 

— Richard Burton, 



^ 



FRESNO, CAL. : 

Frksno Repubi-ican Publishing Co. 

publisheks 

1900 

V. 



87fi07 



Library of Conprresa 

Two Copies Received 
DEC 12 1900 

Copyright entry 

DEC / ^ 1900 

SECOND COPY 

Oeiiverad to 

ORDER DIVISION 

DEC 26 1900 



No 






COPyRIOHT 1900 

RY 

CHARLES ELMER JEN?^EV. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERV^ED. 



^ 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

I desire to thank The Ladies' World, The 
American Agriculturist, and the Farm Journal 
for their kindness in allowing me to include 
in this volume poems first published in their 
columns. 

Charles Elmer Jenney. 



\ 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



I. The Orchard, 

II. The Meadow, .... 

III. The Deep Tang-led Wildwood, 

IV. Priscilla, 

V. '' When the Frogs begin to Peep 

VI. Ladies' Slippers, 

VII. Boyhood, .... 

VIII. Dandelions, .... 

IX. The Redwing's Nest, . 

X. Apple Blossoms, 

XI. When Grandfather Swore, 

XII. The Bay Path's End, 

XIII. The Milkmaid 

XIV. The Catacombs 
XV. Faithfulness, 

XVI. An Air Castle, 

XVII. Beautiful Moonlight, . 

XVIII. The Hay-makers, 

XIX. The Heart of Summer, 

XX. Red Raspberries, 

XXI. Wadin' 

XXII. In Haying Time, 

XXIII. Sylvan Wilds, 

XXIV. Indian Corn, . . . . 
XXV. The Mowers' Song, 

XXVI. The Bumble Bee, 

XXVII. Shall We Forget? 



17 

21 

23 

25 

2b 

29 

30 

33 

34 

37 

38 

41 

45 
47 
48 
51 
52 
53 
54 
57 
59 
61 
62 
66 
67 
68 
70 



XXVIII. 


In Memoriam, 


73 


XXIX. 


The Cry to the Sea, 


74 


XXX. 


Beyond the Known, .... 


76 


XXXI. 


In Berry Time, .... 


79 


XXXII. 


Indian Pipe, . . . , . 


81 


XXXIII. 


His Daily Bread, .... 


82 


XXXIV. 


The Abandoned Farm 


84 


XXXV. 


The King-fisher, .... 


86 


XXXVI. 


The Villag-e in the Pines, 


89 


XXXVII. 


Old Fashioned Things, 


93 


>s:xxviii. 


"The Maiden," 


94 


XXXIX. 


Golden-Rod, 


97 


XIv. 


New Eng-land, . . . , . 


98 


XIvI. 


Jack Frost's Retouching-, 


101 


XLII. 


The Little Brown House on the Hill, 


102 


XLIII. 


Robinson Crusoe, .... 


106 


XLIV. 


Roma, 


107 


XLV. 


November, . , . . . 


108 


XLVI. 


The Four Winds, .... 


111 


XLVII. 


The Reveler 


115 


XLVIII. 


Sparks in the Chimne3% 


116 


XLIX. 


A Seaside Villag-e, 


119 



^ 



lO 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



And a River Winds Down to the Sea, 
The Milky Wa)' of a Summer Day, 
A Well Worn Path in a Woodland Way, 
" Some Mossy Bank my Couch must be," 

The Old Oaken Bucket, 

A Winding- Road that Arched a Winding" Stream 

And When the Shadows Softly Weave, 

The Oriole Swing-s from its Leaf-tipped Branch, 

Where Pickerel I^urk Below the Bridge, 

Just the Woods and Water, and You and I, 

Shall we Forget ? 

When Summer Days Sleep in a Haze, 

The :E;choing- Wood, 

The Wheel that Never Turns Again, . 
God's First and Second Temples, 

l^over's Bridge, 

And the Wind Whistles Bitter and Chill, 

The Woodman's and the Rabbit's Track, . 

Bitter Cold on the Barren Lea, 

Beneath an Arch of Elms, Grass-bordered Streets 

Down Where the Waves Roll Up Along the Strand, 



Frontispiece 
. 20 
27 
31 
36 
40 
44 
50 
55 
63 
71 
78 
87 
91 
96 
100 
103 
109 
113 
118 
123 



II 



TO MATTAPOISETT— 
and TO THOSE 

Who love the fields, the grass and flowers, 
The greenwood tree, the vine clad bowers. 
The pine}^ balm, the April showers 

That start the leaves ; 
The song of birds that wake Morn's swoon, 
The drone of bees at dreamy noon, 
The trill of frogs unto the moon 

Of vernal eves ; 

Who love the charming tints of Fall, 
The browning leaf on tree and wall, 
And Nature's golden crown of all, — 

The harvest cheer ; 
The whistle that the wild winds blow, 
The fretted ghost-work of the snow, 
The blazing back-log's fitful glow, 

When Winter's here ; 

Whose youthful feet the cow-paths led. 
Whom berry-bush and orchard fed, 
For whom the hay-stack made a bed 
Airy and broad ; 



13 



Who worshipped first in woodland nave, 
Choired by the songsters' sweetest stave, 
To whom the brooks their lessons gave 
Nor spared the rod ; 

Who, exiled to the marts of trade, 
Still in some heart-cell, undisplayed, 
Like secret locket, rich inlaid, 

A memory wear 
Of woodlands where you used to roam, 
Of meadows flecked with daisy foam, — 
A place your lips have still called Home, 

And will fore'er. 

To You, whom Time may not allow 
Your book of verse be?ieath the bough ^ 
But who, in fancy, then and now 

Would Nature woo, 
I dedicate this book of verse. 
Though you may wish it were more terse, 
I hope you'll say it might be worse, 

When you are through. 

Charles Elmer Jenney 



^ 



14 



SCENES OF MY CHILDHOOD, 



I. 
THE ORCHARa 

Gray old trunks and gnarled old branches, 

Veterans of the stormy years, 
Tried by winter's avalanches, 

Scarred by Jove's electric spears ; 
Rent and gaping ranks remind of 

Comrades fallen by the way ; 
Still the Springtime bugle wind of 

Muster finds them in array. 

When the leaf-buds bursting, send a 

Tremor forth upon the breeze. 
Covering with a verdant splendor 

All the low old apple-trees. 
How the heart with gladness thrilling, 

Welcomes them to life once more ; 
How the birds come back a-trilling 

Home, from some far foreign shore. 

Bluebirds in their hollows nesting. 

Red-breast robins all the day 
Singing, chirping, scolding, jesting. 

Noisy as the tufted jay. 
Showers of blossoms softly sifting 

Fleck the close-cropped turf below, — 
Snow of June, — ^its pink-tinged drifting 

Stolen from late sunset's glow. 

Here when summer days were mellow 
Branches curved with goodly prize, — 

Russet, red, and green, and yellow, — 
Fairer than met Eden's e3^es ; 

17 



Astrakhan and Summer Sweeting, 
Red and gold, the sweet and sour, 

Fragrant-scented, toothsome eating, 
Brightened many a childhood hour. 

Every breeze exacts a tithing, 

And the gruff old Autumn gales 
Take a toll that's paid with writhing, 

All for Charity's avails. 
Russet, Baldwin, deftly gleaning, 

Scattered o'er the orchard floors ; 
Pippin and Rhode Island Greening 

Harvested with ruthless force. 

Heaped up baskets which the men shall 

Come with team to homeward draw. 
What a store of fun potential, — 

Cider sweet, sipped through a straw ; 
Bins a' heap in cob webbed cellar ; 

Barrels freighted with good cheer ; 
Seeds to aid the fortune-teller ; 

Spicy pies to boyhood dear. 

Pictures of the curl-strung tow-string 

Hung in many a browning row ; 
Odors of the apples roasting 

Near the hearth-side's warming glow- 
Memory's grasp, though skies grow wider, 

Years nor leagues shall not release. 
Here's a toast, in their own cider. 

To the gnarled old apple-trees. 



II. 

THE MEADOW. 

' Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,' 

Which do you 'spose t'will be ? 
' Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief,' 

Oh, he will marry me. 
There goes a butterfly, yellow and black. 

Isn't he pretty, oh my ! 
Where is my hat ? Oh, here on my back. 

Come on. We'll catch it. Let's try. 
There ! It's flown off" and over the wall. 

Aren't you tired ? Let's rest. 
We'll hide here where the grass is tall. 

And play we are birds in a nest. 
Ugh, there's a bug right down by my toe. 

No, it's a cricket. I say, 
Wont the men scold when they come here to mow 

Because we have trampled the hay. 
Say, can you make such a loud squealy noise 

With a blade of grass and your thumbs ? 
I learned to do it from some of the boys. 

This one, I tell you just hums. 
I'm going to roll you over and over. 

Now don't kick out your feet. 
O, see, here is a four leaf clover ; 

Who's the first boy I'll meet?" 



21 



Two little pinafored gypsy maids 

Out in the meadow green, 
Rollicking, romping, making raids, 

Treasures of Summer to glean. 
Astrologers gay in the warm mid-day 

Of the star-flecked daisy field 
Read fortunes bright by the rays of white 

And the disks of the golden shield. 
One by one as the petals fall 

From their fingers brief caress 
A fate is sealed beyond recall 

To burden, or bear, or bless. 
One for happiness, one for grief, 

One for you and me, 
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief," 

Which do you 'spose 'twill be. 



^ 



22 



III. 

THE DEEP TANGLED WILDWOOD. 

Cone-hung pine-tops gently swaying 

High o'er pink arbutus gems ; 
Red-barked birchlings, lithe, a-straying 

From age-silvered parent stems ; 
Soft-furred pussy willows sleeping, 

Alder thickets, brake embossed, 
All in kinship bound by creeping 

Round-leafed green briar, emerald-glossed. 

Here when Spring unwraps amid a 

Sense-entrancing, perfumed gale, 
Jack-in-pulpits prim consider 

On the lilies of the vale ; 
Stars of Bethlehem a-twinkling 

In a green, moss-clouded sky, 
Where a tiny brook goes tinkling, 

And the ferns dwell, frail and shy. 

Here the cat-bird's loud locution 
Midst the sweet azalea's spray 

Warns inquisitive intrusion 
From its bowered nest away. 



23 



Here when evening drapes its umber 
Bob Whites to the firs repair, 

Sharing secrecy and slumber 
With the silent-footed hare. 

Here are berry bushes weighted 

In late Summer's ripening hours ; 
Twining grape-vines purple-freighted 

High o'erhang the leafy showers ; 
Acorns rattle from the white oak ; 

All for Nature's little men ; — 
Autumn's orchard to delight folk, 

Dwellers of the glebe and glen. 



^ 



24 



IV. 
PRISCILLA, 

Sitting- spinning- in the gloaming- of the quaint old long ago, 
Hearts a-winning- with the homing- to thy cheeks of healthy 

g-low, 
Maiden of the Pilgrim training-, in fair Fancy's hall of art, 
In no tints be-marred or waning-, hang-s thy picture all apart. 
Hig-h above thee, herb-hung- rafter, odorous of Summer fields, 
l^choes back thy cheery laug-hter, when to mirth thy musing- 
yields ; 
Or, when throug-h the open door-way, from thy distaff strays 

thy g-lance. 
Off upon a pensive foray, far away, mayhap, as France, 
Thoug-h the forest shadows slanting-, almost reach the oaken 

sill. 
And the plaintive call, enchanting, may not be the whip- 
poor-will. 
But a lurking- Narragansett's signal to an ambushed foe. 
Portent of a midnig-ht transit o'er the settlement of woe, — 
Though the darkness sifting- slowly, in thy Puritanic creed. 
May suggest the dark, unholy Superstition's demon breed, — 
Naught of discontent or terror clouds or daunts thy vision 

clear ; 
In thy g-eneration's error, things unknown to fig-ht or fear 
Thine no share, but in the doing, ready hand and heart and 

mind ; 
And the leg-end of thy wooing- is the fable of thy kind. 
Chaos, thy distaff flax-laden : Destiny wound on thy reel. 
As I see thee, Plymouth maiden, sitting- at thy spinning-wheel, 
Thrills each nerve with new ambition, in a far connected 

heart. 
To preserve the hig-h traditions of the past of which thou art. 



25 



V. 
** WHEN THE FROGS BEGIN TO PEEP/' 

Snows have melted in the shadows, 

Creek and pond to flood are swelled, 

Buds are tipping out the willows, 
Hill and vale no more are held 
In the bonds the frost-sprites weld. 

Listen, hear the frogs a-peeping : 
Through the silence everywhere 

April showers of tinkling music 

Spattering o'er the twilight fair. 
Blurring all the evening air. 

Like some olden fair}^ legend, 

Or the song that mother sung, 

Rings again to-night the vespers, 

As in da^^s of yore they rung, — 
Days when 3'ou and I were young. 

What is it, vague, and long-wished for 
That they stir in us again ? 

Things aspired, or dreams awakened, 

Though their trill has told since then 
Two score Springtimes, ay, and ten. 

Once it meant the Spring of lifetime, 

Sent the warm young blood a-leaping : 

Now, 'tis stillness of life's twilight 

When we hear the frogs a-peeping. 
And we long for peaceful sleeping. 



26 




A WELL WORN PATH IN A WOODLAND WAY. 



VI. 
LADIES^ SLIPPERS* 

Aha, now I shall marry thee, 

My darling Cinderella. 
Fair fortune has been kind to me, 
And guides my wistful eyes to see 

The prize of which I tell her. 

Beside this sparkling spring, so clear, 

Just where I kneel to sip a 
Refreshing draught of nectar dear, 
( Now who'd have thought to find it here ? ) 

I spy my lad^^'s slipper. 

Beneath the leaves, by sun scarce lit, 
Upon the wood-floor's level, — 

A scene for elfin dancers fit, — 

Some fairy must have stolen it 
To hold a midnight revel. 

A dream of pink, of silken sheen. 
With nicest taste displayed in 

Gaj' little bows of fluttering green ; 

{ Was prettier slipper ever seen 
Upon the foot of maiden ? ). 

As finely veined as the dear feet 

From which it has been missing ; 

Almost as Shapely and petite, — 

In fact, withal so very sweet 

I can't refrain from kissing. 

I'll quickly to my sweetheart bring 
This slipper meet for Venus — 

' Twill fit her like a wedding ring, 

I'll marry her this very Spring, 

And none shall come between us. 



29 



VII. 
BOYHOOa 

The eyes of nig-ht shed kindly lig-ht 

Upon his little curly head, 
And darkness teems with pleasant dreams, 

Tucked safe and snug- within his bed. 
The eyes of day smile on his play 

And read for him a fortune bright ; 
Sweet innocence his heart doth fence, 

As theirs of gold are hedged with white. 

The birds and bees, the rustling trees, 

Are his alone, to have and hold : 
No narrow bounds the land surrounds 

Where reig-ns this merry monarch bold. 
His firm belief ( but, oh, how brief ) 

That all the joys with which he knows 
The world doth brim, shall on for him 

Forever, as the river flows. 

In all his air no cloud of care 

Shuts out his sun of happiness. 
And chilling- g-rief can blast no leaf 

His life's youngs Springtime comes to bless. 
Blithesome and g^lad, the little lad. 

For watches ever at his side 
An unseen charm, an unfelt arm, — 

A mother's love, a father's pride. 

Soon g-rief and pain shall fall like rain. 

And sorrows whelm him thick and fast. 
And he shall yearn for the return 

Of sunny days so long-, long- passed. 
In many years, with bitter tears, 

The lad shall learn at what a cost. 
What tender care, how deep a prayer. 

They guarded him who now are lost. 



30 





"some mossy bank my couch must be." 



VIII. 
DANDELIONS. 

Bright suns of April, glitt'ring in the green, 
Thick-star the emerald firmament to-day. 

To-morrow gleams with disks of silver}^ sheen 
The suns of April are the moons of May. 



33 



IX. 
THE REDWING^S NEST. 

Near where the muskrat rears his dome 

And cat-tails lance the mere, 
The redwing builds her basket home 

Of grass and sedges sere, 
And warbles from the swaying reed 

All through a summer's day 
Her bell-toned note, her only creed, 

So happy and so gay. 

Though frail the lace-work structure's art, 

And strong the rustling gales. 
And though more fateful light' nings dart 

Above its willow pales 
Than ruby wing's red flashing line 

From raven cloud disband, 
She dwelleth safe in her design. 

The hollow of his hand. 

Oh, ye, who build a mansion great. 

Set high upon a hill, 
And pride ye on your high estate, 

And plume ye as ye will. 
Are ye as happy as the bird 

That builds beside the mere ? 
For I have surely never heard 

Your praise so sweet and clear. 

34 



X. 
APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

At Mid-May noon the old trees bask and doze 

Soothed by the toiling bees' low droning hum, 
And visions of long vanished Winter snows 

To their pleased dreaming fancy softly come, 
Yet half awake, stirred by a passing breeze. 

That melts their fluttering snow-flakes, one by one, 
They stretch and sigh, and then as dreamland flees 

Blush at the ardent wooing of the sun. 



37 



XI. 

WHEN GRANDFATHER SWORE. 

When I dug up his garden to see the seeds start, 
And then told him they hadn't, with innocent heart, — 
When they fired on the Flag and Fort Sumter's brave band, 
Then my grandfather swore, and swore loudly, 
''Good Land! " 

When the bank which had held his small earnings in trust 
Closed its doors and the papers reported it " bust,' ' — 
And the year the potato bug plague was upon us, 
In the heat of the moment he said, " Mercy on us ! " 

And once when the point of his scythe ploughed the 

loam, — 
And once when the Great Reaper's sickle struck home, 
Unmanned by the shock of the sudden despair, 
I heard, — heard him say, — blame him not, — ' ' I declare ! " 

But his oaths were all sadly repented in pra3'er 

And the things that he swore at would make most men 

swear. 
So I feel that the Angels who make it their care. 
Will lightly record it against him Up There. 



38 



XII. 
THE BAY PATH'S END, 

The snake-like trail, o'er hill, through dale, 
Winds to a mound beside the sea 

O'er which the white-winged Gods shall sail 
From their far land of mystery. 



Here clustered wigwams thinly smoked 

'Mid fields of undulating maize, 
And here the arrow-maker chipped, 

In those last neolithic days. 
The flakes of milk-white quartz to shape 

Keen-edged and barbed, for chase or fight,— 
To stain with Narragansett blood, 

Or stop the wild-goose in its flight. 
Here Wampanoag wampum strung, 

Carved from the blue-eyed quahog shell. 
Or framed the birch-bark's graceful curves 

To cleave the broad Atlantic sw^ell. 
The warrior bent the tough oak bow 

With tight-stretched vibrant deerskin string, 
Or decked the scalp-k)ck wath the plumes 

Far-borrowed from the eagle's wing. 



41 



With harsh-hued war-paint on his face, 

Dug from the shore-side beds of clay, 
A wild, fierce silhouette he made 

Upon the headland of the Bay. 
Here Massasoit saw unmoved. 

The Pale-face paddle to his shore ; 
Here met the Little Captain bold, 

And smoked the peace-pipe o'er and o'er. 
Here where still from the white sand floor 

The crystal waters bubbling burst, 
The hunted Philip knelt one day 

Within the wood to quench his thirst. 



To-day no signal reads the ear 

In fish-hawk's cry or night-owl's screech 
The Red-man's spirit stalks unseen 

In moonlight eves beside the beach. 



Long sleep to warrior and long dreams, 
A Happy Hunting in the West, 

A swift canoe o'er pleasant streams, 
And here a peaceful Place of Rest. 



42 



XIII. 

THE MILKMAID. 

She's graceful as the timid fawn 
As light she trips across the lawn, 

With milk-pail swinging, 

Blithely singing, 
In the glow of early dawn. 

The whole day long you'll hear her song, 
The kitchen's humble crafts among,— 

The happy fairy 

Of the dairy. 
Ignorant of ruth or wrong. 

And when the shadows softly weave 
Their web about the dewy eve. 

And day is weary. 

Listen, cheery 
As a wood-bird can conceive 

There comes the fading fields across, 
Clear-ringing from the echo's toss, 
The rising, falling, 
Coaxing, calling, 
' Boss, co-boss, co-boss, co-boss." 



45 



A barnyard fragrant with new hay, 

A milking-stool, three-legged and gray, 

And seated on it. 

With her bonnet 
Tossed from rippling curls away, 

With cheek against the moolie's side. 
With face half-turned and laughing-eyed. 

She draws the tinkling, 

vSplashing, sprinkling. 
Frothy, foaming, snowy tide. 

So here's a toast we will not pass. 

Come, drink and drain the milk-brimmed glass, 

Unto this healthy. 

Wise and wealthy. 
Early rising country lass. 



^ 



46 



XIV. 
THE CATACOMBS. 

Through long, dim corridors whose shadows throw 
An added gloom upon the pillared stone 
Where vault on vault enwraps the crumbling bone, 

The mummied form, or cell of hidden woe, 

Soft-treading, belted forms flit to and fro, 
Or chant in half-hushed dreary monotone 
That haunts the hearer with its ceaseless drone, 

A hymn to labor, as they come and go. 

No dark and dismal caver ned chambers these. 
Beneath the ancient walls of harassed Rome, 

But white-rowed domes beneath the apple-trees. 

Among whose blossoms, showered like breeze-tossed 
foam. 

The steady buzzing of the busy bees 
Betokens hoards of amber honey-comb. 



47 



XV. 
FAITHFULNESS. 

Time heals all wounds ; great sorrows dim ; 

The poignancy of Death is dulled ; 
The tears which erst o'erflowed the brim 

Are dried ; the heart's keen pangs are lulled. 
Yet I would bear the throes of grief, — 

Would suffer for a love long lost, 
Forever, than court sooth relief, — 

A momenf s peace, — at Memory's cost ; 
Than feel Oblivion's soft caress. 

Betrayed to base Forgetfulness. 



48 



XVI. 
AN AIR CASTLE. 

A day-dream scarcely builds so slight 

A structure o'er in Spain, 
Or chooses such an airy site 

For its idyllic reign, 
As that half hidden by the elm's 

Wide-drooping, bowered retreat, 
High up among the leafy realms 

That arch the village street. 

The golden light of sunset skies 

And blackness of the night, 
Their offspring cradle in this wise,- — 

Hence take their fledgling flight, 
And who below a-watching but 

With wonder would declare 
A Phoenix flown from LiHiput 

Had built a home up there. 

A half-way house 'tween heaven and earth, 

Where spirit with spirit communes 
In bird-song, gay with gladsome mirth, 

And sweet aeolian tunes. 
Should St. Cecilia from her dais 

Flit down on earthborn quest, 
She well might choose as trysting-place 

The oriole's hanging nest. 

51 



XVII. 
BEAUTIFUL MOONLIGHT. 

Yest're'en I walked in the white moonlight 

With you, dear, at my side, 
With your hand's caress on my arm, so light, 
And your eyes aglow like the stars of night 

That gleamed in the heavens wide. 

And the low, sweet tones that your lips did please 

To wreathe with your kindly smiles. 
Like the murmured words of the cooling breeze 
To the list'ning ears of the eager trees, 

Stirred all my heart's dark aisles. 

My eyes on you were as stars above ; 

My ears as the myriad leaves ; 
And the heart you felt the fierce beating of 
Enwrapped you and held you, my darling, my love. 

As the moonlight the world inweaves. 

Oh, the tender thrill of your presence there ! 

Oh, eve that hath flown too soon ! 
Though the days that come are gloomy and bare, 
A vision will visit my sadness whene'er 

Shines the light of the magic moon. ] 



52 



XVIII. 

THE HAY-MAKERS, 

Who was it in the Springtime trilled 
A song that all the grass-blades thrilled, 
And made them yearn to reach and grow 
Up to the joys he lauded so ? 

You know, I think ; 

'Twas Bob-o-link. 

Who was it in the evening still, 

Down in the mead, or on the hill, 

With never a desire to shirk, 

Would whet the scythe for morrow's work, 

With whip-poor-will, 

Poor-whip-poor-will ? 

Who was it that with shrewd cocked eye, 
Observing dark-piled cumuli, 
The thunder-shower prophesied ? 
The Quail it was who loudly cried, 

Make haste ! More yet ! 

More wet ! More w^et ! 

And so the men with fork and rake 
Full many a rounded cock did make. 
While homeward rolled each dome-like load, 
Within the barn-mow to be stowed, 
Where an old Owl, white-barred and gray, 
Hoots, " I — too helped — to make — the ha^^' 

53 



XIX. 

THE HEART OF SUMMER, 

The heart of Midsummer is beating with mine ; 
Her love told in whispers, — the breath of the pine, 
Each nod of the daisies, each curve of a vine, 

Confesses the secret to me. 
As resting upon her fair bosom I lie, 
Apart from the world, beneath the blue sky. 
And watch the foam-clouds like great bergs floating by 

Over an aerial sea. 

Bejewelled with lilies of workmanship rare, 
A garland of sweetest wild rose in her hair, — 
So fair m^^ enchantress beyond all compare, 

Each glance that she grants is a boon. 
The air smiles and laughs with the sunshine and birds, 
The earth tones a harmon}^ grander than words, 
The sky its true symbol of constancy girds 

Around us the long afternoon. 

The fragrance of countless sweet blossoming things 
Each stir of her vesture enchantingly flings 
About me, the while the gay bobolink sings 

Of all her voluptuous charms ; 
Then softer she croons, — in the hum of the bees, 
The rustle of grasses, the swaying of trees. 
Warm air weaves, enwrapping with glamour the breeze, 

And lulls me to sleep in her arms. 

54 



XX. 

RED RASPBERRIES* 

In the thicket down back of the garden, 

Where the raspberries flourish and spread, 
We were picking a dishful for dinner 

Of the ripest, most luscious and red. 
The bees discontentedly grumbled, 

Interrupted in nectarine sips, 
While the briars, ungracious and surl}^ 

At our garments gave sharp, vicious nips. 

But a danger more dread than the daggei 

Of fuming, infuriate bee ; 
More sure than the briar's stiletto. 

Was lurking in there for me. 
For Cupid that day was out hunting. 

His bow, it was shaped like her lips. 
And the shaft in my bosom he buried 

Was one of his love-poisoned tips. 

You know them, those great puckered berries, 
Like thimbles of ruby embossed ; 

Those musk-flavored globules of sweetness. 
That epicures' praises exhaust, 



57 



You know how a blush of pure pleasure 
Flushes even the trained finger-tips, 

And only a sequence of color 
Protects from betrayal the lips. 

And you'll understand how it happened, 

When a thorn in her white, dimpled arm 
Caused her rose-tinted lips to pucker 

With a quick little cry of alarm, 
That I should mistake, in my flurry 

( The wisest will make just such slips). 
For the sweetest and ripest of berries , 

Her own fair, deceiving, sweet lips. 

The stain, it was not of the juices 

Of berries that tinted her cheek ; 
The glow that o'erspread my horizon 

Was not their reflection unique. 
Perhaps it was twice that it happened, 

I w^ouldn't say how many trips ; 
And kisses are like the red raspberries, — 

They are never betrayed b}" her lips. 



^ 



58 



XXI. 

WADIN^ 

I say, wont you quit your gappin' ; 

Nothin's the matter, you fool. 
Haint nothin' great goin' to happen 

'F a feller plays hookey from school, 

Been down to the frog-pond, wadin' : 
Bet you wish't 3^ou was along. 

Water was bully 'n we staid in 

Till we heard the supper bell dong. 

Caught a whole hatful of skaters : 
Wasn't they kickin', oh my. 

Spotted the frogs with pertaters, 

'N soaked one right in the eye. 

D'ye ev' have a mud-turtle grab you, 
Grab right hold of your heel ? 

Just wait till you have one nab you ; 
Maybe I didn't squeal. 

Don't it feel good to wiggle 

Your toes way down in the mud ; 
Guess 'twould a made you giggle 

When Jackie set down with a thud. 



59 



lyOts of poUywogs wogglin' 

An' squirmin' around your toes ; 
Jackie an' me got to jogglin' 

An' spattered up orful our clo'es. 

Found some sweet flag-root growin' 
Over'n the edge of the wood. 

Had to wade deep when we's goin' — 
Pants rolled up high as we could. 

Wasn't it fun, oh, crackee. 

Water was bully an' warm. 
But that little sneak of a Jackie 

Had to go home and tell mom. 

Bet I will give hhn a lickin'; 

Whoppers all went up the spout. 
Ma aint so green as a chicken ; 

Stockin's was on wrong-side out. 



^ 



60 



XXII. 
IN HAYING TIME. 

Meadow-larks make mellow warbling, 

Quails are whistling in the wheat, 
When across the fields of morning, 

Comes afar and faint the beat 
Of the rhythmic mower clicking, 

Clicking, clicking, clicking slow, 
As the swaths, waist high and luscious. 

Fall in many a rippling row. 

Foot by foot the tide that billowed 

At its flood at matin song. 
White-capped by the ox-eyed daisies, 

Fast recedes the forenoon long, 
Till its ebb leaves only lapping 

Ivong, low breakers sweeping o'er 
All the flats, and stubble-pebbled 

Reaches of the meadow floor. 



6i 



XXIII. 
SYLVAN WILDS. 

Encircled by a forest no woodman's axe hath marred, 
There lies a fairy lakelet, its bosom lily-starred ; 
Protected and secluded by odorous monarch pines, 
Whose whisperings only, stir it in rippling, shim' ring 
lines. 

Its clear, bright face reflecting the twinkling stars 

of night. 
What fleecy clouds of noonday pass o'er it in their 

flight, 
And pines, whose shade extending beyond the bluffs 

that rise, 
Form scenes of sylvan beauty too rare for common eyes. 

The alder bushes woo it along the Southern shore ; 
A motionless kingfisher keeps watch and warden o'er 
The troutlets that are sporting down in a shady deep. 
Beneath the stump he rests on, whereon rare mosses 
creep. 

Down in its crystal waters a lazy pick'rel glides, 
Or watching some rash insect, a bass in waiting hides, 
With fins and tail slow fanning, beneath the water 

weeds, 
Till, flash — and splash, — and ripples go circling toward 

the reeds. 

62 



In sun-kissed, reed-fringed ba34ets sweet lilies scent 
the air, 

Tame water-fowl reposing, fear no intruder there, 

Of all life's fragrant mem'ries, count this among the 
first. 

To kneel and kiss those waters, to quench the noon- 
day thirst. 

And after freely feasting from rich-stored blackb'ry 

vines. 
To lay upon the needles beneath the murmuring pines, 
iVnd listen to the music Aeolus lightly plays. 
Beside the fairy lakelet, in lazy Summer days. 

And in the rough bark cabin to sleep 'neath fairy spell. 
Soothed by the peaceful silence and whip-poor-will's 

' ' Rest well ; ' ' 
Alone ; — alone with Nature, breathing in health and 

rest, 
Feeling the breadth of freedom, there by the fair 

lake's breast. 



^ 



65 



XXIV. 
INDIAN CORN. 

Up o'er the hill long files of warrior hosts 
Move with the silent stealth of midday ghosts. 
The rustlings only of their buckskin dress 
To keenest ear their onward sweep confess : 
But startled eye, across the landscape sees 
Ten thousand plumes a-nodding in the breeze, 
And gleams of sunshine flicker everywhere, 
Reflected from long tufts of golden hair. 
That once fair Saxon maidens might have graced. 
But dangle now from each fierce foeman's waist ; 
A band of warriors of the tribe of Maize, 
With scalps at belt, from one of their forays 
Returning down the Vale of Genesee, 
To celebrate the feast of Victory. 



66 



XXV. 

THE MOWERS' SONG. 

Through the long midsummer day, 
Where the meadows stretch away, 
Men are out a-making hay. 
Hear the scythe sing merrily, 
Ker-wink, ker-wee, ker-wink, ker-wee. 
Up and down the whole broad farm, 
Bended back and bared brown arm 
Swing the blade that works the charm, 
Then beneath the maple tree, 
Ker-wink, ker-wee, ker-wink, ker-wee 
Rings the stone against the steel ; 
'Long its length the fingers feel 
If the edge from point to heel 
Keen for the clean cutting be ; 
Ker-wink, ker-wee, ker-wink, ker-wee. 
Down the hill come Jack and Jill 
With the pail they did not spill. 
Thirsty mouths with cheer to fill ; 
After they have had their drink, 
Ker-wee, ker-wink, ker-wee, ker-wink, 
With a wisp they wipe the blade, 
With a sweep the circuit 's made, 
With a swish the grass is laid, 
In long windrows down the lea ; 
Ker-wink, ker-wee, ker-wink, ker-wee. 
Step by step the mowers go. 
Rythmic to the swaths laid low, 
Towards the sunset's reddening glow^ 
Till the day's-end wearily 
Stills the last ker-wink, ker-wee. 

67 



XXVI. 
THE BUMBLE BEE, 

That's a lusty, roistering fellow, 

He tricked out in jerkin yellow 
And black velvet breeches, gay 

As a lord in court array. 
And he carries, with a swagger, 

'Neath his belt, a ready dagger. 
He's the terror and the pride 

Of one half the country side. 
With his daring mid-day raids 

And his drunken escapades. 
You may meet him by the river 

Where his gruff ' ' Stand and deliver ! " 
Floating forth upon the breeze. 

Frights the pale anemones 
While he borrows, willy-nilly 

A year's income from a lily. 
Or relieves, with reverence, e'en 

Jack-in-pulpit of his " green." 
By his brazen boldness bent 

Clover gives up every scent, 
And the wild rose furious flushes. 

Flooding face and breast with blushes 
When this gallant cut-throat curses. 

Never robs he ladies' purses, 

68 



But his tribute sweetly sips 

From the fair ones' pretty lips, 
Then with cap a-rake and chuckle 

He holds up a honeysuckle, 
Takes his toll with boast and bluster 

From a rich azalea cluster 
And receives with greatest pleasure 

All a strawberry blossom's treasure : 
Fills his pockets with the gold 

In which forinerly had rolled 
Those young Dives, dandelions, 

Solomon's own worthy scions. 
When he's rifled all he cares, 

Back he comes with boisterous airs, 
Roaring forth a rousing ballad, 

Swearing these his days of salad. 
To the tavern where he sups, 

Drinks a dozen buttercups 
To the fortunes of the road 

Till he's tipsy as a toad. 
Then he mounts the board, this clown, 

('Tis an oak-leaf, sere and brown) 
And drawls out a drinking song, 

Arrant rogue as e'er went wrong, 
And when he has tried each label 

Goes to sleep beneath the table. 
Here's a cup of nectar, then, 

To the king of highwaymen. 

69 



XXVII. 
SHALL WE FORGET? 

Shut from the sunlight and the open air, 

Toward which each heart-throb leaps, — each 
instinct yearns, 

Old Alpha Beta chant we in our turns, 
Or o'er the Gallic Commentaries glare ; 
Or in tiered cells of brick, dim-eyed we stare 

At Arab hieroglyphs till fever burns ; 

In crowded factory the frail form learns 
The Shuttle's dreary song, — the Steam's hoarse blare. 



Shall we forget the old humanities 

In Ages' lapse, — the language of the trees, — 

The wind's wild speech, — the ocean's sounding 

hymn ? 
To Nature's symbols fair our eyes grow dim ? 
And deaf our ears to all the choral throng, — 
The blithe bird's note, — the brook's sweet purling 
song ? 



70 



XXVIII. 
IN MEMORIAM* 

Come, Memory, let us sit beside the blaze ; 

Hark to the wind outside : 'tis fearful weather ; 
It's long since we have had a talk together ; 

I've been so busy, and so swift the days. 

I know why you have called to-night. A place 
Is vacant, and I need not ask you whether 
You see again the ring upon the heather, 

Whose merriest link was her fair, laughing face. 

'Twas long ago ; the boys and girls will grieve : 

And you must call upon them all this eve ; 

There's one who stood a friendship's every test, 
And one who dearer was than all the rest ; 

Give them, what I would fain bear in your stead. 

My message, with the message of the dead. 



73 



XXIX. 
THE CRY TO THE SEA, 

A breeze from the sea blew over the marshes, 
The cry of a gull skirled harsh on the ear, 

The sound of the waves on the rocks was swelling 
And the smell of the spray was as salt as a tear. 

A lad looked off with a gaze of yearning. 
Afar o'er the seaweed wall that lies on 

The ridge that shuts out the sea from the meadows, 
And far away to the blue horizon. 

'* Oh if I only were free, were free. 
Free as the gulls to fly away, 
Seeking a fortune over the sea, 
I would away to-day, to-day." 

He leaned on his scythe as one lightly dreaming, 
Nor turned to glance where the sea-wind blows. 

Where the bushes creep to the marsh's limit. 

Where the tufted sedge and the cranberry grows. 

The salt grass swathed in the thin-laid winrows 
Or unmown, bowed to the wind's own w411, 

The taste of the tide holds fast in its veinlets 
But the lad was steeped in it stronger still. 

74 



Would I were free as the breeze that blows 
Over the billows, tossing foam, 

Far and wude as the sunbeam goes, 
Over the wide world I would roam. " 



Under a sun that knows no mercy 
Off in the utmost bounds of earth, 

A traveler lay in the waste of fever 

With a paler face than that land gives birth. 

The air was stifling with scent of spices, 
The wavelets lapped on a coral reef 

And the haggard man who was gazing seaward 
Knew that his time w^as ver}^ brief. 

Listen ! What is that moan so weak ? 

What is the wish breathed forth in the sigh ? 
What does the heart's last drop so seek ? 

" Oh, could I onl}^ go home to die ! " 



^ 



75 



XXX. 

BEYOND THE KNOWN. 

They come not back again to bring us news, 
Who pass the barriers of that country fair, 
Where Fancy wanders pleasantly ; of where 
The Summer breeze sings low as wood-dove coos, 
And Silence is its own appointed muse. 

Where dreams do dwell ; where souls do yearn 

in prayer 
To be ; from whence, as on the twilight air 
Sweet perfume floats, fond longing idly woos. 
That land they call, who are not bound by ties 
Of close relationship, Illusion ; those 

Who know and love it well, the Blest Ideal. 
The hint of which in all true poetry lies ; 
The Heaven toward which each human life- 
plant grows 
From out its darkened earth-cell of the Real. 



76 



XXXI. 

IN BERRY TIME. 

When Summer days sleep in a haze 

Of sunlight, warm and mellow, 
And Autumn's dawn is shedding on 

The leaves a glow of yellow. 
With pails a-swing, down past the spring, 

Where willow wands hang drooping, 
With catbird call,— with leap and fall, 

A merry band goes trooping. 
No slightest breeze strays through the trees 

Where harvest-flies are ticking, 
And bird-songs hush, for e'en the thrush 

Is off for berry-picking. 
A wood-path's shade leads to the glade 

By many a zigzag turning 
Where bushes low have long ago 
O'erspread an ancient burning. 
And set a feast which e'en the least 
May share in bounteous measure. 
Well fit to lure an epicure 
From artificial pleasure. 



79 



Swift fingers loot the luscious fruit 

Beneath the leaves a-twinkling, 
And pour a stream of jet-black cream 

Into the pails a-tinkling. 
The bacchant bee drones noisily 

Home from his nectar-drinking, 
And all too soon an afternoon 

Tips westward and is sinking. 
With lips a-stain, home through the lane 

A barefoot group comes creeping, 
With briar's brand and faces tanned 

And pails filled up to heaping. 



Fair days appear in youth's bright year 
Where Memory goes a-tricking, 

But o'er the rest those days seem blest 
When came the berry-picking. 



^ 



80 



XXXII. 
INDIAN PIPE. 

Gone are the savage days lang syne, 

When harsher than the roar of flood, 
Or prowling wild-cat's hungry whine, 

The war-whoop chilled the settler's blood. 
In unknown graves in field or glen, 

Where once they roamed in beast-lent garb, 
Beside this vanished race of men, 

I^ay tomahawk and flint-hewn barb. 
But ponderers o'er the days of yore 

May, as a sign, beneath the trees, — 
On forest glade's great wigwam floor, — 

Still see the warrior's pipe of peace. 



8i 



XXXIII. 
HIS DAILY BREAD. 

The wild azalea's early fruit ; 

The tendrils of the grape's new shoot ; 
From marshy nook beside the brook 

The puck 'ring sweet flag's jointed root. 

Wild strawberries' rich, lip-staining wine ; 

The rounded leaf of greenbriar vine ; 
Nor scorns to share the squirrels' fare, — 

The guarded cone-seed of the pine. 

Bark from the yellow birch's twig; 

The bud and leaf of sassafras sprig ; 
And 'neath the mould, more prized than gold. 

Its spicy root he deigns to dig. 

The ruby drops of wintergreen ; 

Its tender sprouts of reddened sheen, 
That garnish glen and dale and fen, 

He and the jay and partridge glean. 

And berries, — rasp, and blue, and black ; 

I' faith, there never yet was lack 
Of treasure store, the country o'er. 

For bird and beast and Boy to sack. 

82 



The bitter bay berry's pellets gray ; 

The wild grape's royal purples pay 
From year to year, a tribute dear 

Through the dominions of his sway. 

Gray marbled root of fronded brake ; 

Wild cranberries from near the lake ; 
An apple-tree invites his glee, 

A trespass and a forfeit shake. 

The acorn from its graven vase ; 

The hazelnut with auburn face ; 
The walnut eke, when missiles seek, 

Descends to him from its high place. 

'Tis thus His Majesty is fed, — 
That Nature grants his daily bread, — 

Nor doth his heart spurn works of art. 
For when the Boy is safe in bed 

And sleeps, he dreams that when he dies, 
He'll find up there above the skies. 

Amid enough of other stuff, 
A jolly lot of pumpkin pies. 



^ 



83 



XXXIV. 

THE ABANDONED FARM. 

The farmhouse old hath long been mould, 

On the sunken stoop the black snake crawls, 

And the raspberry bramble at will doth ramble 

And cover the scar of the cellar walls. 

The hewers and hoers long since are dead, 

The living are sundered and scattered and fled. 

Hushed is the clatter and clang of men ; 

From the bearded oak a crow doth croak, 

And the wild wood claimeth its own again. 

The rail fence crumbles, the stone wall tumbles. 

And ivy and woodbine wreathe and wind, 

And wrap in a sheen of scarlet and green 

The prison chains that the fields confined. 

And that tiny mite of an auburn sprite, 

The chipmunk, hoards his harvest therein. 

And plays in peace where the forest trees 

Shadow and sunlight weave and spin. 

The sumach's maze is fanned to a blaze, 

The wild grass rustles and waves and croons. 

And the oak leaves sigh at the passing b}^ 

Of a cloud o'er the calm of the August noons. 

There hums a tune, — an old, old tune. 

Through the fragrant fret of the murmuring pines, 

Where the gray squirrel frisks and frolics and whisks, 

Or under the needles for treasure mines. 

84 



The fluffy flock doth hide from the hawk 

At the warning cry of the partridge cock 

Where the blackberry -vine doth intertwine 

And the mullein and milkweed interlock. 

A russet, gnarled and moss-ensnarled 

Hath wandered back to his forest kin, 

But finds no friend to cheer his end. 

And the apples are sour and hardy and thin ; 

The woodpecker's mark is hewn in its bark, 

And graven deep in each dying bough. 

And a hoot-owl basks in its bole and asks. 

In the dusk of evening. ''Who?" and "How?" 

With prying approach and cunning encroach 

The wood revenges the woodman's axe, 

And silent and slow creeps on its foe 

Till the clearing is lost in its wildered tracks. 

To her compact true, when the note falls due, 

Nature forecloses her mortgage of old, 

And man hath freed by a quitclaim deed 

All right and title to have and hold. 

With her hand and seal, beyond repeal, 

By another lease she doth entail 

To bird and bee, to bush and tree. 

To fox and squirrel and coon and quail. 

There are tenants now who will prune and plough. 

Who will guard and garner with tireless arm. 

And give such cheer to the farer here 

As never before on the old BoUes farm. 

85 



XXXV. 
THE KINGFISHER. 

Afar, in solitude, in state like one, 

Kingly survivor of a proud, lost race. 

Sits the great sachem in his lofty place, 
As motionless as the dry branch, his throne ; 
His feathered scalp-lock fiercely outlined, — stone ; 

The war-paint, red and blue, on breast and face ; 

But through the wilderness with silent pace 
No file of warriors creep. He is alone. 
Beneath, the edd^dng current rushes by 

Between black alder, brake, and berry spray. 
Through its cool depths his swift spear-head doth fly 

With sudden, cunning aim at troutlet prey ; 
Then, restless, tired of peace, with harsh war-cry 

He wakes the echoing wood, and steals away. 



86 



XXXVI. 

THE VILLAGE IN THE PINES, 

Nestled in a sunny bay 

Of the woodland's winding way, 

Lies a lonely little village, strewn with cones : 

O'er its lanes the pine trees shed 

Carpets silent to the tread, 

And the robins flit above moss-cushioned stones. 

They who dwell within its bounds, 
Quietly boieath the mounds, 
Never care to pass beyond its walled extremes. 
'Tis the homeland of the Blest, 
'Tis the village of Long Rest, 
And of peaceful sleep and unawakened dreams. 

Slanted marbles mark the miles 

Of their journey otherwhiles. 

E'en beyond the distant bourne of four-score years. 

Graven granite, scarred by Time, 

Tells with many a pious rhyme 

How they fared along the weary vale of tears. 



89 



If you choose to wander here 

In the Springtime of the year, 

You will find the green with myrtle all arra3'ed. 

Here the fragile moss-pink spreads 

By the sleepers' humble beds, 

And the violets' sweet faces cheer the shade. 

In the warm still afternoon 
You may hear the pine-tops croon 
A low melody that thrills some long-lost chord ; 
'Tis the tale of weal and woe 
Ivived so long and long ago 
By the folks who sleep beneath the blossomed sward. 

Sometime when our wand'rings cease 

And our spirit finds release, 

To our fathers gathered, as the law^ divines, 

We will sleep the long, long sleep. 

Where the moss and myrtle creep. 

In the peaceful little village 'neath the pines. 



^ 



90 



XXXVII. 

OLD FASHIONED THINGS, 

' Old times, old friends, old wine. " What dim desires 
Awake ! What pride, what vain regret there rings, 
When Memor}^ strikes these chords upon the strings 

Tense-drawn across the heart of human lyres. 

To-day may reverent homage pay its sires, 
But never feel the thrill their music brings. 
And all the other good old-fashioned things, 

That light anew the heart's low smouldering fires. 

The way they used to do when we were young : 
The tales our fathers told, the well-sweep high 

From which the moss-grown oaken bucket hung, 
The blazing back-log's hospitality. 

The spinning wheel, the songs our mother sung, 
The worn blue China plates, — and you and I. 



93 



XXXVIII. 
^*THE MAIDEN/^ 

Beneath the Harvest Moon a Maiden dreams. 
Persephone, fair Ceres' fair-haired child, 
Whose wealth of golden tresses, flowing wild 

In the mild moonlight, shed strange, darting gleams. 

What dreams ? Of Springtime's laughter-loving streams 
Of fields of green and breezes undefiled, 
W^hen with young June were pleasant hours beguiled, 

E're led astray by Pluto's amorous schemes. 

Alone, forsaken now, in sad unrest. 

She clasps the sheaf and sickle to her breast ; 
Her day of happiness seems now so brief, 
So near the harsh, cold days of bitter grief. 

Dreaming, she sings a soft-toned lullaby. 

Then shivers and breathes forth a long, low sigh. 



94 




GOD'S FIRST AND SECOND TEMPLES. 



XXXIX. 
GOLDEN-ROa 

The Autumn is the twilight of the year ; 

Upon the fruits of Summer's toil we sup, 
Then rest contented, and with fund of cheer 

Slow sip the vintage from a brimming cup. 

As creep the darkening shadows o'er the lawn, 
Foretelling Winter's night-time, still, serene. 

The sun a thousand torches breathes upon 

And, lo, they spring in flame, to light the scene. 

The3^ flood with radiance all the Autumn eves. 

And holy incense offer up to God, 
Till Winter's page, the Wind, blows out and leaves 

Us all to dream. So dies the Golden-rod. 



97 



XI.. 
NEW ENGLAND, 

The siren call of Summer Isles 

May lure the fickle feet astray ; 
Our hearts shall beat, despite their wiles 
Across ten thousand desert miles, 

As waves beat on thy cape and bay. 

lyCt tropic suns smile on soft ease, 

Where Lust and Languor dull recline ; 
Thy call is heard far over seas. 
Thy message sent on every breeze ; 

We name Thee ours but we are Thine. 

No less than genial, smiling June, 

Thy blustering East wind thrills and warms 

The witch-like music of its rune 

Sets tingling nerves all in attune 
With Spirit of the Winter storms. 

Oh, headland bold and rock-strewn shore ! 

Billow and breaker on the beach ! 
What courage brewed in thy uproar. 
What energy earned from the oar, 

What loyal hearts thy trials teach. 



Oh, granite hills that greet the sky ! 

Oh, forests of the whispering pine ! 
Oh, lakes. Oh, rivers running by ! 
Who dwells beside thee but shall try 

His utmost powers toward the divine ? 

With Energy bred in Thine air. 

Endurance, from Thy Winter's blast, 
Ambition, from thy Mother's prayer. 
Rash he, indeed, who shall declare 

The Great Ones gone, shall be our last. 

98 OUJ 



LofC. 



XIvI. 

JACK FROST^S RETOUCHING* 

With criticizing air of connoisseur 

He views the verdant landscape Summer left, 

And seizing brush, with strokes as swift and deft 
As master-brain was ever wont to spur. 
He whitens all the foreground and the fir, — 

Daubs red and gold the maple leaves sharp-cleft, - 

Paints yellow all the sheaves harvest-bereft. 
And browns the grape-vine garb and walnut burr. 
A touch, a dash, with artful skill applied : 

And ever quick the slightest fault to seek. 
He scans with e3^e not wholly satisfied 

The maiden Autumn, too demure and meek : 
Then with a careful hand and full of pride 

He tints a rosier glow upon her cheek. 



lOI 



XLII. 
THEILITTLE BROWN HOUSE ON THE HILL. 

Far away from the smoke 

That the pure air doth choke, 
And the noise that doth peacefulness kill, 

Where the road winds between 

Fair pastures of green, 
Stands a little brown house on a hill. 

Mansions great and stone-built, 

And embellished with gilt. 
May the pride of the moment fulfil, 

But the heart will hark back 

When the nerve strings are slack 
To that little brown house on the hill. 

B}^ the shaky old stile 

Simple daisies still smile, 
And the 3'arrow creeps close to it still, 

But no smoke's floating South 

From the chimney's broad mouth 
Of the little brown house on the hill. 

Near the straight garden walk 

Grows the tall hollyhock. 
And the lilac blooms fragrance distil. 

But there rings forth no horn 

And the life is all gone 
From the little brown house on the hill. 



102 



There's a creak to the door, 

And a bare oaken floor 
When once you have passed the worn sill, 

And the feet it once pressed. 

They have long been at rest 
By the meeting-house over the hill. 

Underneath the well-sweep 

Where the green mosses creep, 
Lies the water as clear and as still 

As when feet long ago 

Pattered slow to and fro 
With the buckets to empty and fill. 

In the meadows the cow^s 
In the Summer still browse : 

Down the hillside tink, tinkles the rill : 
And the robins still sing 
From their apple-tree swing. 

And the bob-o-links twitter and trill. 

And when bare branches show 
'Gainst the sunset's red glow, 

And the wind whistles bitter and chill, 
Then the snow blanket weaves, 
And tucks warm to the eaves 

The little brown house on the hill. 

When old ghosts stalk abroad 

At your memory's nod, 
How the senses once more softly thrill 

With a faint, far-off joy : — 

You're the ghost of a boy 
In the little brown house on the hill. 



105 



XLIII. 
ROBINSON CRUSOE, 

No single champion, with a peerless lance 
Upholds the banner of thy fame, Defoe, 

But dare a sneering cynic look askance, 

And thousands wrangle for a chance to throw 
The glove of combat in his face. For lo, 

The company that read thy rude romance, — 

The youthful minds its bold event enchants. 
Like Jason's fabled serpent teeth upgrow 

Into an army even Death in vain, 

With his grim sword-scythe's heartless sweep 
hath mown. 
All ready art and armor to employ 

In thy defence, who modelled with thy brain, 
In form more during than Carrara's stone, 
The spirit of adventure in a boy. 



1 06 



XLIV. 
ROMA. 

What might was Thine who not alone Thy day 
Of pride ruled o'er with vast supremacy, 
When nations at Th}^ word bent humble knee, 

And none refused Thy tribute stern to pa}' : 

But who, now Ages mock Thee and Thy sway, 
Mistress no longer over land and sea. 
Known only through the tomes of History, 

An empire fallen into dim decay. 

Art greater yet than ever Thou hast been : 
O'er tribes barbarian still retain Th}^ power : 

Whose voice sonorous, heard above their din. 
Christens the forest tree and frailest flower : 

And curbs and drills with Thy strict discipline, 
The untamed School-boy many a weary hour. 



107 



XLV. 
NOVEMBER. 

The golden light of Indian Summer setting, 

Gray twilight creeps abroad ; the furred ones drowse 
To their long sleep that knows no vain regretting ; 

The wind sighs through the leafless forest boughs. 
Hush ! — Then the bugle-blast, with loud repeating, 

Of that fierce Huntsman, Boreas, mingling makes 
With yelping of the sky-pack, Southward fleeting 

Through blinding snow-fog, from the Northern lakes. 
The Harvest Feast a little while amasses 

Good cheer, and flings the shivering Year a bone ; 
Then Winter's wand upraised makes magic passes. 

And all the earth is turned to silent stone. 



io8 



XLVI. 
THE FOUR WINDS, 

March gales, with ruddy, puffing cheek, 

That whirl wayfarers' hats away, 
And then with fierce derision shriek, — 

Wild as the hares of March at play ; 
The winds that veer, and chase the vane 

Till its own mind 'twill not aver. 
And aerate the April rain 

With incense of earth-life astir : 
That kiss the mayflowers fugitive, 

Then on my cheeks and forehead fawn ; 
Their fickleness I still forgive, — 

Their charms remembered when they're gone. 

I love the w^nd that waves the grass 

In Summertime, in billows green. 
Or wafts with many a magic pass 

The fragrance it has paused to glean, 
From woodland blossoms, fair and sweet. 

Or snatched unbidden from the rose, 
Across the senses, fain to greet 

An opiate of such kind repose ; 
Or, in its might, so swift and strong, 

An Ariel of unfancied form, 
With rush as of an unseen throng, — 

The herald of the thunder-storm. 

The wind that shakes the walnuts down 

And mourns its deed through barren boughs ; 

Then drives in ranks of rustling brown 
The listless leaves to mad carouse ; 



III 



Now ca.sts the great ships on the rocks, 

In equinoctial fits of rage, 
Now yearns for Summer's perfumed locks. 

Now dreams of Springtime's playful age. 
Yet all its moods accord with mine ; 

I dream again of days gone by, 
Then long to buffet Fate's design, 

Aspire, despair, laugh long and sigh. 

But best of all I love, perhaps. 

The wind of Winter, wild and weird, 
That all the earth in snow-folds wraps. 

Or sweeps bare hillsides with its beard. 
That drives unbridled, all unchecked. 

That mad white steed, the racing sleet. 
Whose dripping flank the way hath flecked. 

And hid the trace of muffled feet ; 
Or with its piercing, drearsome whine 

Betrays the frost-wolf at the door, 
And sends a shudder down the spine 

Of hearth-side listeners with its lore ; 

That whistles with so shrill and sharp 

A note, that earth's cheeks chill and blanch. 
And plays a sad aeolian harp 

On every brown and barren branch ; 
That sends a thrill of joy and fear 

To those that list and learn and live, — 
A yearning for the past ; a tear 

For all that friends and memory give. 
Oh, Winds of Heaven, blow and blow, 

Where'er thou listeth ; chant thy rune ; 
All men must hearken ; some may know 

The thrill of answering chords in tune. 

112 




BITTER COLD ON THE BARREN LEA. 



XIvVII. 

THE REVELER. 

Jack Frost was out on a spree last night, 

And painted the whole of the country-side white. 

He pinched a late wayfarer well by the nose, 

He tweaked at his ears and he trod on his toes. 

He whispered a word in the last Rose's ear 

So cold that she shivered and withered with fear. 

Then off to the forest he hastily rushed 

And squeezed the trees so that the Maple leaves 

blushed. 
He split all the hazelnut burrs open wide, 
And cracked the fat hickory nuts hard in the side ; 
Maliciously set all the sumachs ablaze. 
And locked up the crickets in underground ways. 
In fact, he committed about every crime, 
And had what he called just a jolly good time, 
Till the morning at last put an end to his fun, 
And he was placed under arrest by the Sun. 



115 



XIvVIII. 

SPARKS IN THE CHIMNEY. 

I sit and watch the sparks fly up the chimney. 
The long-pent soul of the wood is flitting back 

To its home with the stars ; 
The stars that the oak in its strong young days 

looked up to 
And whispered to in the cool peace of the nights, 

When the heavens beamed. 

Dying now ; its trunk but a crackling ember ; 
Still all aglow with the heat of life's last sap, 

Their image shines 
Still bright and clear through the smoke-mist soon 

concealing 
All else of earth from its eyes and mind and heart. 

See the sparks ! See the stars ! 

So I, when Death's Winter drearily comes a-stealing, 
And the flames of life burn out in the battered trunk, 

Shall show how true 
By the murmured word, by the thought that glim- 
mers brighter. 
By the call, and the prayer flitting up to God, 

Was my heart to you. 

ii6 



XLIX. 

A SEASIDE VILLAGE. 

Beneath an arch of elms, grass-bordered streets 
Where buttercup with dandelion competes 
Who nearest to the danger line shall grow, 
Where 'customed footsteps patter to and fro ; 
And grown to place along their quiet way, 
With back to wind and facing tow^ard the bay, 
The low-built cottages, with roof and w^all 
The color weather paints both great and small ; 
Huge sea-shells Neptune once held to his lip, 
At corners four now catch the gutter's drip ; 
A turtle's back holds many a flowering stalk, 
And coral sculpture decks the garden walk, 
Where maiden ladies move wdth pensive tread 
And dream of one who laid his youthful head 
On pillows white like this, and fell asleep 
Beneath the waves, in Indian waters deep. 
What wonder that the seas from here to him 
Are salt as tears ; that still the ej^es grow dim 
As Memory whispers of the hopes forgot 
When typhoon cables cut and lover's-knot. 



19 



The walls that now so long a fearless front 

Have outward turned against the tempest's brunt 

And blustered threat and loud-outspoken boast, 

As fierce it stalked all up and down the coast, 

Bedecked within with many an ornament 

By South Sea isle or Arctic cavern lent ; 

The spotted cowry and the sea-beans dark ; 

The fragile nautilus, — that fairy ark ; 

Rude idols of the fur-clad Esquimaux ; 

Grim war-clubs from the wilds of Borneo ; 

Squat Buddhas, silent o'er the hearth's bright fires 

As centuries ago o'er suttee pyres ; 

The polished whale's-tooth, finely tattooed o'er 

With fancies odd as sailor's arm e'er bore. 

Or carven into many a polished frame. 

Or feudal puppets of the checkered game ; 

And little barkentines, full-rigged and taut,- — 

Model perchance of one whose timbers rot 

Ten times ten fathoms deep, where fishes spawn 

Among the spars that birds once nested on ; 

And treasure chests of camphor wood, inlaid 

With ebony and ivory, and made 

In the long hours of calm below the Line, 

Where glassy sea and glaring heaven shine. 

Or 'tween the watches, filled with little cheer, 

The idle hours of many a lonesome year 

When whittling winged the thought to wife or maid, 

And e'en at times the brain from madness stayed 

1 20 



In the long monotones of day and night 
And sea, with nothing else in sight 
But phantoms of a village church and green, 
A little cot, — a mother's tender een. 



Down where the waves roll up along the strand, 
And leave upon the whitened slope of sand 
A tangled twist of seaweeds, soft and rare. 
Combed by the breakers from some mermaid's hair, 
Or riches fair in gold and silver shells, 
Or music shut in lime-encrusted bells, 
Or some strange monsters sacrificed to Earth, 
Ivike evil genii of the water's birth : 
With cordage strewn, and nets and lobster-pots, 
And upturned keels beset with leprous spots 
Of barnacle, that fungus of the sea, — 
To boats what mistletoe is to the tree, — 
Storm-beaten wharves, the land's adopted capes, 
Stretch seaward welcome hands to whom escapes 
The wind's wild wrath, the reef's dark treachery, 
And all that threats who go down to the sea ; 
Or wave the last farewell to outward bound, 
When sails are set and creaking capstan wound. 
Here oil-skinned fisher-folk scowl at the sky. 
And foretell weather with a cast of eye. 
Or leaning 'gainst the rock -embedded piles 
Spin wondrous yarns of other where and whiles, 
And bare-legged urchins, silently discreet, 

121 



Land now and then a chogset at their feet. 

Spry catboats down the bay are coming back 
The zigzag course of many a shortened tack : 
Or left becalmed, flap like a wounded wing 
The futile sail, till breezes succor bring ; 
And far across the sound a liner sends 
A puff of smoke where sky and ocean ends : 



Along the shore, where ripples run and break 
Upon the sandy flats in endless wake 
At ebb of tide, sandpipers stalk, and crows 
Caw gruffly o'er the prize the wavelet throws 
Up toward the pebbled beach ; the sea-gull's shriek 
Sounds like the whirling pulley's labored creak 
When halliards tighten, in stong hands held fast, 
And gaff and sail creep slowly up the mast : 
His shadow glances o'er the fretted foam 
And Cancer scuttles to his rockweed home ; 
Uow, twisted cedars, hung with shredded lace. 
Behind the rock-walled Coast the tempests face : 
A jagged point upholds a beacon light 
Above a rounded tower of ghostl}' white ; 
And when the muffling fog flings wide its arms 
An unseen horn blurts forth its hoarse alarms.. 



Forth from these wharves a thousand men set sail, 
And tried their canvas stout on every gale ; 



122 



From every gulf the seven lands half hide, 

A soul has for this quiet haven cried ; 

To this the merchant of the India trade 

Returned whene'er a fortune fair was made ; 

To this the captain and the whaler's crew, 

When all their perils were gone safel3^ through, 

And four long years had sped the exile term, 

Came home with hold full-stowed with barrels sperm. 

Its pastures green, red-dotted with the kine. 

Between gra}^ walls embossed with briar and vine : 

Its woodland paths w^here Youth was wont to stra}^ 

And gather fragrance in the month of May, 

Or share the acorns scattered of the oak 

In Autumn da3^s with nimble squirrel folk, 

And list the pines' low whisper to the breeze 

Of wonders fair as wishes, over seas : 

Its quiet streets, where in the first-love's charm 

He lingered homeward with her on his arm 

From pious worship on the Sunday morn, 

Or from some evening frolic, — husking corn — 

Or quilting party — when the midnight air 

Awoke to mingled song and laughter rare ; 

All call the traveler with a siren's power 

Home to the haunts of Youth's short happy hour. 

And every clime gives back its borrowed brood 

Except the sea, which keeps its tithe for good. 

Ah, he shall find, who loves to linger here. 

Traditions salted in the atmosphere 

125 



As thickly as the herring and the cod 

When seine and line do well the deep defraud. 



A dreatay air seems o'er the town to croon, 

The sunshine sleeps the long still afternoon, 

And shadows of the past seem to unfold 

Full many a tale of olden time untold. 

The wanderer o'er the troubled sea of life, 

Come safe to port here after all the strife, 

May think himself, aye, more than three times blest. 

At harbor in this quiet place of rest. 



^ 



126 



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